


Into the Woods

by tristesses



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Fantasy, Happy Ending, Knights and Princesses, Light Horror, Loving Descriptions of Scenery, Magic, Romance, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shieldmaiden goes on a quest to rescue a princess. A witch is not what she seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonotadream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonotadream/gifts).



> Sonotadream, you asked for a story about a princess in a tower and the knight who rescues her, but with a twist. I hope I delivered! This was a joy to write.
> 
> Thanks to [morbane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane%22) for the beta!

_"Please, save our daughter."_

_In the flickering light of the torches, the Queen's face seemed to be nothing but shadow and strips of flesh. She reached toward Brynja, firelight playing over her knuckles, her fingers like pale twigs. They settled on Brynja's arms and curled around her biceps, vinelike. Behind her, the King-Consort knelt in the dirt. His eyes were on the floor, his palms up in supplication. Brynja didn't want him to look at her._

_"Save our daughter," the Queen said again, and shook Brynja for emphasis. Brynja's lips moved; she meant to speak, to agree with her sovereign, but her voice wouldn't come. But, as if he had heard her, the King-Consort looked up, his gaze locking on hers, and Brynja flinched at their color: not the fine dark brown the bards sang about, but brilliant opaque green, and as Brynja stared, they widened and widened and she saw trees reflected in them, dark trees choked with shadows, filled with strange shapes, and a winged figure descending, talons out, a terrible shriek in the air—_

Brynja awoke with a yell clogging her throat and every muscle tensed. For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was, or why. Then the memory came to her, and she exhaled without making a sound. She let herself go limp on her blanket, breathing quietly as her cramped muscles relaxed. Minutes rolled by, and finally she sat up with a grunt, wiping dew from her eyelashes and hair.

She had crossed the border between farmland and the forest only two days ago, and already the forest had wormed its way into her dreams. Nameless and ageless, it loomed around her now, coloring the world in shades of green, punctured only by a few rays of sunlight. But that was light enough to tell her that it was well past sunrise, and she needed to be on her way.

"Up and at 'em, Bryn," she muttered, and heaved herself out of the mossy hollow she'd slept in. Part of her was surprised that the moss hadn't grown over her in her sleep, swallowing her like the forest in the King-Consort's eyes had.

She shook out her blanket and hung it to dry, for all the good that would do—already it had begun to rain, a light mist that left everything damp—and shoved a piece of soggy bread in her mouth as she checked her weapons. No rust yet, though the forest was notorious for disliking steel and leather. The edge of her hatchet was pitted with minute scratches from hacking a path through the forest, but sharpening it could wait for nightfall. She had a princess to rescue. It took her just a few minutes to gather the rest of her things and cram them in her knapsack, and then, with mild trepidation, she set off again.

The forest was a deep, saturated green, barely touched by the sun. The trees were massive, wider than Brynja was tall and stretching as high as castle walls, their bark gleaming red and brown from behind the moss and vines that clung to their trunks. Unlike at the edge of the forest, here there were paths cut through the undergrowth, most likely deer trails. Brynja chose to follow them; it was better than slicing her way through undergrowth. Along the path were huge ferns, some the size of her torso, some larger, and flowers as big as her head blooming in bright pinks and reds. Beyond them, the forest receded into blackness.

She looked into the darkness until her eyes ached, and shuddered, walking on. In her heart, she regretted taking this assignment. Brynja had fought in many battles. She had saved lords and ladies from brigands and kidnappers; she'd slain dragons and out-riddled sphinxes. But even then, she'd been in familiar territory: flat plains, mountain passes, the arid desert bordering her homeland—and she'd never been alone, truly alone. After all, even a solitary knight on a quest could bring along her spelled mirror to call for help if she needed it. Here, she was thousands of miles away from anyone and anything she could recognize, and her mirror had cracked the moment she stepped foot into the forest. Like the townspeople in Wood's Edge had warned her, the forest abhorred magic not its own.

What was that? A sound, a rustle in the trees. The wind, high in the branches. Nothing moved. She went on.

And of course, there was the likelihood that the princess was far beyond saving. Eight years had passed since she had been stolen, and eight knights had gone to her aid. Three had come back. They had returned to the castle and stood before the doors, saying nothing, neither eating nor drinking, until the Queen came to see them. All spoke of a forest, more beautiful than words could describe, full of endless mist. Their eyes, too, glowed green, like the King-Consort's in Brynja's dream. When asked why they returned, unharmed and without the princess, they had all said the same thing: "It wanted us to leave."

And then they disappeared, one by one, sneaking past their guards in the night, never to be seen again.

Not that Brynja was afraid. She had no delusions that she was intrinsically better than other knights, for they were admirable men in their own way, but she was raised with a woman's education, after all. Like most women, her grasp of strategy was superior to that of the hot-blooded men who made up the bulk of the knighthood. Undoubtedly she would fare better than the men who came before her.

Undoubtedly.

* * *

_A winged figure descended, talons out, a terrible shriek in the air—Brynja screamed like a child and bolted. But all she could do was run deeper into the forest. The branches grabbed at her, tearing her clothes, slicing right through the tough leather of her jerkin, until she was stumbling naked through the woods, soaked in rain. Behind her, the winged creature kept the pace, its hideous voice cackling as she stumbled and gasped in fear._

_"Little knight, little knight, who do you think you're saving?" it cawed, and thunder boomed loud enough to deafen a woman. "A cherished princess, a wicked witch? The girl whose wisdom gave hope to a sieged city, or the beauty as white as snow, with hair as black as night? Are her lips red with blood, little knight?"_

_Brynja scrabbled at her waist for her sword. In her hands, it fell to rust. Above her, the trees stretched tall until they blotted out the clouds above. The winged thing circled above her, illuminated in bursts of lightning—first a woman, next a serpent, its wings feathered, then webbed. The roots of the trees burst through the ground, wrapping around Brynja's ankles, dragging her to the ground. The winged creature wheeled in the vast space below the trees, cawing. "Little knight, who do you think needs saving?"_

The smell of rotten grass and effluvia choked her, so thick she could taste it. Brynja opened her eyes, rolled off her blankets, and retched into the ferns. When she finished, she returned to her blankets and burrowed into them. The season was turning, and the night was cold; there was a rime of frost on the ground. It would melt into dew by morning.

Days had gone by since she entered the forest, perhaps weeks. With no way to track time, she could not tell, and the forest itself was silent on the matter. Only the cold told her that time had passed at all. She had no more food; her sword and hatchet had rusted and her leather armor was disintegrating. It was so wet she couldn't even light a fire to chase the chill from her bones. And the dreams…the dreams wouldn't stop, sometimes following her into waking hours. Always the same creature, mocking her, driving her deeper into the forest.

She wondered if she would ever get out.

"No," she said aloud. Anger prickled her skin; she struggled out of her blankets and surged to her feet. "No. You can't have me."

She'd slept in her boots and shirt, and the moss was already encroaching upon the blankets. Her leather jerkin had gone to dust. She stared at the remains of her supplies, then shook her head. She wheeled around and faced the black forest. There was no moon, no stars, but she was lit with anger that melted slowly into determination. To the forest, she said: "I'm not yours. _You can't have me_."

Brynja took a step forward. Then another. She stepped off the trail, and soon was fully enveloped by the monstrous trees. Deeper into the forest, now; and even deeper, slipping between trunks and stalks, bashing her shins and twisting her ankles on rocks and boulders. The cold settled into her bones, but she stubbornly kept on, blind in the dark. She wouldn't, _couldn't _give up. Not like that, cold and alone in the dark. If she died, she would die with a challenge on her lips and defiance in her heart.__

At some point, she closed her eyes. The forest looked the same either way, except perhaps for a tint of green, and it was easier, somehow, not to look. Warmth crept over her face as night faded into dawn, but she still kept her eyes closed. She knew what she would see: a wall of endless green, unchanging and unmoved by the passage of one woman through its depths.

Then a voice cut through Brynja's murky thoughts, so startling that she lost her balance and crashed to her knees.

"Well, you're certainly a persistent one, aren't you?"

Brynja gasped and opened her eyes. The woman in front of her gazed down at her with a severe expression, her arms folded across her chest. She was clad in nothing but the raw light of first dawn. Her hair was black as night, her skin white as snow. Her lips were the color of fresh, wet blood.

"Princess?" whispered Brynja, and fainted.

* * *

At first, Brynja was convinced she was still sleeping. She was warm, lying on a stuffed mattress, stretched out like a lazy cat. The air smelled of flowering plants and fresh-cut pine. There was sunlight—sunlight! She had forgotten what it felt like. And she had had no nightmares.

Then she moved. The swift pain of her bruises and scrapes, the tug of bandages on her limbs, and the ache of her battered body quickly told her that she was truly awake. If she were dreaming, she was certain she wouldn't hurt like this. But she needed to see where she was, and find out who had saved her. An image of the woman, ethereal and cold, flashed through her mind, and she shivered.

But right now, she hadn't the energy to think about the stranger. She only wanted to discover where she was, find water, and use the latrine. With a groan, she pushed herself upright, and looked around.

She was in a small, brightly-lit room, with walls of logs lashed together with vines and a ceiling of braided bark. Uneven planks served as the floor. The bed looked to be made of one huge, halved log, covered in a sack stuffed with feathers and straw. Tentatively, she swung her legs out of bed and leaned forward, testing her weight. There was a sharp pain in her ankle that made her inhale through her teeth, but Brynja knew broken bones; this wasn't an injury to worry about. Carefully, she stood. Her legs held.

On one wall, a crude window had been created by cutting a rough square of wood from the wall. A spider web stretched over the upper right corner. Instinctively, Brynja knew it faced the east. She took a step toward it and halted; her head swam and a wave of nausea rushed over her. She'd hit her head, or the forest had poisoned her. She gritted her teeth and went toward the window, stumbling on the rough planks. When she made it there—only six steps from one wall to the other, but it seemed so far!—she nearly collapsed, leaning on the logs of the windowsill. Then she looked out the window, and stiffened in shock; the splintered logs dug deep into her palms as she gripped the sill tightly.

She was looking out upon a sea of green. It rolled out as far as the eye could see: unending miles of rippling leaves, massed together to form an unbroken canopy. The sky was blue and the sun shone gold, but they seemed dimmed, as if the forest was sucking in their light. She was in a massive tree, towering above the others, in a small cabin nestled in its branches. Rope ladders hung down to the canopy below, and Brynja realized with a jolt that the window was the only way to get in or out of the cabin. She'd never loved heights, and this made her woozy. She sank to her knees and turned to lean against the wall. Then she froze like a startled deer.

The woman, her mysterious stranger, was standing across from her, leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed. In daylight, her skin glowed the pale green of a fresh shoot of grass. Jet-black coils made up her hair, shifting with a whisper like leaves. Her eyes were green, too, vivid as the forest, but Brynja recognized their tilted shape: so like the King-Consort’s, and the Queen’s face was in her strong jawline and elegant neck.

"What," Brynja said.

"Eloquent," said the woman—the princess, or a fey creature who had taken her shape—and smiled. Her canines were elongated and pointed like a predator's. Not the princess, surely not, but some trick of the forest meant to drive a woman mad. Brynja scrabbled at the wooden wall, dragging herself to her feet to stand and face the creature head-on. Instinctively, she bared her teeth. The woman held up her hands.

"Calm down," she said, placatingly, but her eyes were sharp, and evaluated Brynja like a wolf seeking out the weakest member of the herd. "If I were going to hurt you, I would've done it already."

"Hardly reassuring," Brynja said. Her ankle twinged, but she held herself up, staring down the woman. "Are you one of the Fair Folk?"

At this, the woman’s eyes went wide, then she laughed. It was joyous and human; her uncanniness faded, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes changed her face from harsh to inviting. "If I were, I would find you terribly rude. What's your name?"

"I am from the Southlands," Brynja said. Names were powerful things; it was best to avoid sharing hers. "If you aren't one of them, then who are you?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "You don't recognize me?"

“Should I?”

The Witch gave Brynja a knife-sharp smile.

“I should hope not,” she said, “for I have never stepped outside these woods before.” Her words had the tenor of a lie, like lines spoken by a mediocre player: a woman unused to being dishonest. 

"Knight of the Southlands,” she continued, formally, with only a hint of the mockery Brynja was used to hearing, “I am the Witch of the Wood. A pleasure to meet you."

She sketched an ironic bow. Her hair fell across her bare shoulders, and Brynja realized suddenly that the Witch wore not a stitch. Her gaze skipped from the Witch's narrow face to her breasts, then to the thatch of hair between her legs, and heat rushed to her face, burning as if to light the sun on fire.

The Witch had noticed. She said nothing, but let her lips quirk at the corners in an amused smile.

"You should get back to bed," she said. "You're not yet healed."

"I'm fine," Brynja said. She was being stubborn and knew it. The Witch sighed again, more for Brynja's benefit than her own.

"Fine," she echoed. "Suit yourself. I'll be back to change your bandages."

"I've dressed a wound before," Brynja pointed out, and the Witch smiled.

"Not with spells like mine, you haven't," she said, and something strange happened to Brynja's eyes. A quick shadow crossed her field of vision, and when she blinked it away, the Witch was gone. Bemused, Brynja watched a small spider scuttle across the floor: the web-maker in the window.

The Witch had told her to sleep, but Brynja had no intention of doing so. The Witch was not a fairy, nor a shape-changer—Brynja had had dealings with the Fair Folk before, and they were never as blunt as this woman. This was the princess: Brynja knew it in her gut. Yet she had lied, and for that Brynja did not trust her.

It was midday, and Brynja resolved to stay awake until her rescuer returned. But she _was_ exhausted, far more than her wounds had indicated, and dozed off some hours later, curled up in a ball by the window. She woke only when the Witch coughed pointedly and said, "I see you never made it to the bed."

Brynja snorted at her, still wiping sleep from her eyes. "I thought I'd stay here. Liked the view."

"Did you?" asked the Witch in surprise. The sarcasm seemed to have blown by her. She crossed to the window, resting her forearms against the rough sill. Brynja looked at her ankles, her calves, her thighs, then forced herself to look away. "I think it's beautiful. The loveliest thing I've ever seen." She reached out, as if to touch the forest itself. The sun was setting, and the trees looked ablaze with red fire. "Not many people think so."

Her expression had gone wistful, and she stared at the forest with soft, wet eyes. Brynja tried not to breathe loudly, fascinated by this chink in her armor. Then the Witch stiffened, as if she had forgotten Brynja was there, and took on the brusque tone that Brynja was already becoming familiar with.

"Go lie down on the bed," she ordered. For lack of options, Brynja did so. She was wearing nothing but her bandages, but as a knight, used to chirurgeons stripping her down to care for her wounds, she had little shame. She lay still while the Witch's eyes traveled over her body: first her toes, then up her legs, mottled with scrapes and bruises, and to her stomach, stopping on the thick pink scar bisecting her dark skin, from her left side across to her right thigh, jagged like a thunderbolt.

"A pike," she said, in response to the Witch's unspoken question. "Goblin-spelled. It took my horse in the throat and cut straight through my mail."

The Witch nodded. "You're lucky to be alive. Goblins have uniquely nasty magic."

"So I've learned," Brynja muttered.

She had more scars, of course; she was a working knight, and had no taste for simply prancing about at court in shiny armor. The Witch asked her about them, seemingly fascinated by even the slightest detail. All this time, she crushed herbs and sap into a bowl she had carried with her, and ground them into a salve. It was strange, to lie back and talk with a being so otherworldly, but oddly comforting

"All right," she said, cutting Brynja off mid-story. Mildly affronted, Brynja fell silent. Then the Witch sat on the bed and pushed Brynja’s legs apart.

"What are you doing?" Brynja said hotly, snapping her legs together, but the Witch glared at her. Her green eyes sparked; Brynja’s heart raced, but her sudden spike of fear meant nothing: too weak to press her advantage, she protested no more, and let the Witch do as she pleased. The Witch knelt between her legs and smoothed salve on Brynja's battered calves and thighs. Brynja watched her, still tense. The salve tingled pleasantly, numbing the pain. The rhythmic circles of the Witch's fingers on her skin, and the strange song she was humming, were soothing. Brynja blinked; blinked again. Drowsiness crept over her. She was nearly asleep when she felt the unmistakable press of lips against her ankle.

"What are you doing _now_?" she demanded, shoving herself upright. The Witch looked up at her, slightly peeved, holding her ankle delicately in one hand.

"Healing you," she said with a frown. Before Brynja could object, she added, "Here, look," and kissed the spot on her ankle where bone ground against bone, somewhere deep under the skin. Her tongue flicked out and brushed Brynja's skin. Brynja gasped. The throbbing pain shrank until it was gone entirely; she hadn't noticed how badly it had hurt until the pain was gone. The Witch leaned over and spat something black and viscous on the floor.

"Pain," she said. "The salve serves as a conduit for the magic, and I take the pain into myself, then destroy it."

"Doesn't that hurt?"

The Witch looked at her strangely. "Of course."

Brynja had nothing to say to that. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes. The Witch kissed every part of her, each caress of her lips kindling a long-ignored heat inside Brynja. It had been so long since she had been touched like this.

When the Witch crawled over her, cupping her skull and turning her head to tenderly kiss the sore skin of her head injury, Brynja let out a long, shuddering breath, and gripped the sheets tightly. She was acutely aware of the other woman's nakedness, and of her own. She wanted to take the Witch's jaw and turn her face toward her own, wrap her leg around her waist and make her arch her back, touch every inch of her spring-green skin. Brynja tried to shake off her rush of desire; it served no use but to drive her mad.

Then the Witch stood, and left Brynja bereft of her touch.

"That should help," she said, her face impassive. None of the animation from earlier was evident; she seemed again like an eldritch creature, looking at Brynja as a woman looks at a worm. "Tomorrow I shall take you into the forest, for food and water."

She turned away. "Good night, little knight."

Brynja went rigid, shutting her eyes on reflex. Those words, those words—she had forgotten about them, had let the Witch’s beauty bring down her guard, and those two words cut her to her core. The Witch was gone by the time she opened her eyes, but still she shivered, remembering. Night had fallen, and the moon was dark.

_Little knight, who do you think needs saving?_

Brynja did not sleep well that night.

* * *

Below the canopy, the forest was shrouded in grey. Mist hovered between the branches, cloaking the ferns and leaching color from the flowers. Brynja moved warily through the undergrowth, batting away skeins of moss and floating leaves. Beside her, the Witch of the Wood, daughter of queens, walked with her head held high, glowing with light like the sun. Her skin was deepening into a lush green, as if she ripened with each passing day. Branches reached out to brush her skin; vines slipped down her smooth back and curled around her waist, then fell away. Her eyes were alert; she looked around the forest like a jaguar taking in its surroundings. She was exquisite. Brynja feared her.

She had intended to confront the Witch at daybreak, but her resolve crumbled when she woke to find the Witch perched on the end of her bed, beaming at her with her predator's smile. There was so little threat in it that Brynja could not feel compelled to crush her joy. Yet Brynja still was afraid, could not help but shudder when she remembered the winged creature and its terrible rage. She looked at the Witch's plump, ripe lips and thought of kissing her; she looked at the Witch's lips and thought, _Lips red with blood._

"Here," the Witch said suddenly, and veered off the deer trail. This was an opportunity; Brynja could run, right now, and she suspected that the Witch would not pursue her. She might even let her go, as she must have let the other knights go—though Brynja now wondered about them. Did the Witch pluck them from the forest, as she had plucked Brynja, or did she force them out? Was Brynja different?

She followed the Witch into the forest.

The Witch had led her into a glade full of plants alien to her. All around her, huge bright stalks covered in glistening tendrils swayed, seemingly of their own accord. Plants with thick leaves and a single flower jutting from each core thrust themselves from the wet mulch. Strange plants furled and fused together like cups were scattered through the glade, their leaves green and their veins a brilliant red. As Brynja stood at the edge of the glade, plants with lobed leaves like mouths seemed to sense her; they shifted to face her, one by one, their maws parted, revealing bright pink slashes.

"Do you see?" murmured the Witch. She knelt to touch a lobe-leafed plant, and it trembled at her touch, its maw opening and closing. "Do you understand how beautiful this is?"

"It's breathing," Brynja whispered, and so it was; the forest was pulsating, like a lung expanding and contracting. "How can this be?"

"Everything is connected," said the Witch. She dug her nails into the dirt, brought a clump up to her lips, tasted it. Her tongue flickered like a snake's. "This whole forest is one living being. Each plant, each animal, they are organs; hearts, brains, lungs. Magic holds us together like blood." She cocked her head at Brynja, like a bird (or perhaps a winged beast). "This is why the forest rejects outsiders."

"Like me," Brynja said. The Witch looked uncomfortable.

"Not like you," she said. "I chose to take you. It would have consumed you otherwise." She considered her words. "You refused to give up. I liked that."

She offered Brynja a small smile. There was a dimple in her cheek; Brynja looked at it and ached. The Witch caught her eye, and heat arced between them. A frisson ran up Brynja's spine; the Witch's lips parted and her eyes went wide.

This Witch was dangerous. Brynja could not forget that, though she already cared for her, far too much. She had to break the hold the Witch on her. Brynja took a step back, then another. The Witch's brow furrowed: inquisitive, and perhaps worried. She looked nothing like the winged thing—but Brynja had to know.

"You lied about who you are,” she said slowly, feeling out the words. “You _are_ the princess. Why didn’t you tell me?”

The Witch's eyes blazed, and she stood up in a swift motion that promised quick death to her prey.

"I am no princess," she sneered. Her fury only belied her words; there could be no other reason for her rage. "I am the Witch of the Wood, little knight, and you had better watch your mouth."

_Little knight, little knight_. All at once, Brynja saw the shape of winged creature inside the Witch, a matter of posture and suggestion, as if it were a carrion crow hidden behind a gossamer veil. The words screeched in Brynja's head, dizzying and frightening, and an unreasonable anger rose in her breast.

"You're a liar, is what you are," Brynja said. She advanced on the Witch, and the Witch stepped back. "You're a liar, and you're cruel. You tortured me for weeks—you made me think I was going mad—"

"You foolish wretch," the Witch spat. Her voice had changed, deepening in pitch, rasping in her throat. The plants rustled unhappily; the mist had gathered into cloud, around and above them; thunder rumbled. "I did what I had to do. I thought to drive you away, like I did the others—"

"You abandoned your parents; you torment those who come to rescue you. The kingdom loved you. Your parents loved you! Their only daughter, stolen by a wicked witch on the eve of her sixteenth birthday. Now look at what you've become!"

" _Stolen_?" the Witch cried in outrage. Now, she was half-beast, half-woman, feathers jutting through her skin, webbed flesh sprouting between her fingers and clinging to her arms. "Stolen? I left!" She advanced on Brynja, who braced her heels in the dirt and stood her ground. "I hated my life. I didn't want the responsibility they forced on my shoulders!"

"You were the heir," Brynja said. The Witch's second form made her chilled and nauseated, as if she were lost in her dream. She still did not run. "You were their only daughter, and you ran off like a selfish child?"

"You dare judge me? Look at you!" The Witch flung her clawed hand out at Brynja, taking in her muscular build, her scars and her callouses, with one gesture. "You demean yourself, mucking about in mud and blood like a man. Why would you not sit at your mother's side and learn how to rule your fief? Or are you, too, a selfish child?"

"I am the youngest of seven sisters," Brynja snapped, stung. "I shirked none of my duties—"

"You could have been a priestess," the Witch interrupted, eyes glittering like beetle's wings. "You could have been a scholar, like a responsible woman, or even found some man to sire your children and continue your family line. But you didn't, did you?"

Brynja opened her mouth with a growl, but the Witch barreled on. "My parents loved me, yes. They cossetted me and sheltered me, laced me up in corsets and made me learn statecraft at their knees. And when my magic appeared—when I made the peach tree blossom and sprout fruit in winter, all for want of a sweet thing to eat—they feared it, and locked me in golden rune-chains to keep me from using it. Can you imagine what that's like, to have a piece of your soul cut away from you?

And you blame me for leaving. How _dare_ you."

There were tears on her face, gleaming like morning dew. Suddenly, she seemed small, deflated, though she was still half-beast. She repeated, forlornly, "How dare you."

In that moment, she was no longer an eldritch thing, something to be hated, but a young woman, worn down by her own fears. Pity rushed over Brynja as quickly as the rage had. She took a step forward, hesitantly. The Witch did nothing but bow her head and weep. Brynja knelt in the dirt and touched her shoulder lightly.

"Why did you do that to us?" she whispered. "Haunt us like that?"

"I had to scare them," she said brokenly. "They would have tried to take me back. They would have hurt me. You—I didn't think you would."

There was a moment of silence, tense as a stretched line of spider's silk. It broke like spider's silk, too, softly and with a sigh as Brynja took the Witch's head in her hands and pressed her lips against hers.

"I won't," Brynja said quietly. "I forgive you—and I promise I won't take you back."

The Witch shivered in her arms, and twined her arms around Brynja's neck like clinging vines. She kissed Brynja again and again, slipping into her lap. Her green skin was the waxy texture of leaves, and she moaned when Brynja ran her fingers up her supple spine. Brynja wanted to take her slender wrists and pin her to the forest floor, taste her nectar, but instead she held the other woman, kissed her and traced paths from her clavicle to her breasts and her stomach.

"I still don't know your name," the Witch gasped. Brynja paused, and put her lips to her ear, and told her.

"And yours?"

She tilted her head in that fey manner of hers, a predator's smile hovering on her lips. Her body was lax and satisfied, and her eyes shone with an unnatural glow. 

"I, Lady Brynja? Why, I am the Witch of the Wood.

Who else could I be?"


End file.
